The Phantom's Mask
by Bismillah
Summary: Nathaniel strayed from the truth for so long, unable to accept it. Assigned to a dangerous mission to obtain an important relic before the Resistance does, he tries to save himself from his steady route to demise. But can he do it alone?
1. Nathaniel: Standing on the Border

Hey, to whoever would read this! Thanks for popping by my fic and hopefully it would be to your liking. Don't be afraid to nitpick, I can handle criticism, but please don't just outwardly say that it sucks, heh heh, I'd appreciate constructive criticism. I've actually been a fan of the Bartimaeus Trilogy for the longest time, and when they had made a category for it, I was ecstatic. Although it took me time to write a story, I'm happy that I got around to it. I also have another fic coming up, so hopefully look out for it.

**_The Phantom's Mask _**

**_Chapter One   
_**

_Nathaniel: Standing on the Border _

'_Fading... Almost gone..._'

There had been no photographs taken of Nathaniel as he was a child, so as John Mandrake stared upon the ornately designed mirror of his townhouse, he saw barely any difference from what he saw now, and what he remembered seeing before. What basis did he have for any comparison? Only memories that he sought hard to recover. He had stayed the same, for all he could remember, save for his unrulier hair and the dark bags beneath his eyes, yet the disquieting words of Bartimaeus had struck him cold this warm night in his well ventilated house.

Surveying himself intently in front of the life size mirror from bottom to top, Nathaniel could only note the tangible changes that his body had undergone. His height had increased indefinitely, which had added to his leanness. His ribs ached from that ridiculously tight suit, though dignity would not allow him to change it. His hands had grown calloused and ink-stained, due to the many documents he had to rummage through. His hair had turned into an untamed, dark mass which he no longer attempted to control. His face lost whatever baby fat it once contained and his facial features had been defined, albeit quite sunken in.

Pride would not allow him to admit these thoughts to anyone else.

'_Nathaniel... Mandrake..._'

The difference between those two words did not rest simply on their phonetics. One had been an identity, the other, a façade. But that realization was far from reaching the mind of the fourteen year old boy, who was on the brink of his fifteenth year. No doubt, it would be a joyless birthday, such an occasion was too insignificant to be remembered, but Nathaniel found that he yearned to be known for who he was, not just for what he had done. Still, it was a fool's whim.

John Mandrake had gained renown for first uncovering and foiling Simon Lovelace's plans of rebellion, and afterwards he had recovered Gladstone's staff and that whole nasty business with the Golem. Nathaniel had fulfilled all the expectations he had for himself. He had made the name John Mandrake famous, and he had done it for himself and for himself alone.

'From the cunning alchemist to the man who researched about mites, to me... The youngest minister ever,' said Nathaniel in a phlegmatic tone. His knees buckled and he fell on them in front of the mirror, 'of all these bloody nights, why this one?' muttered Nathaniel as memories of the past events flooded through his mind. From Underwood, to Lovelace, to the Resistance, his mind was mired with a tired weariness.

Removing his gaze from the intoxicating mirror, he staggered onto the chair of his desk and buried his head in his arms. Massaging his temples, Nathaniel ran his bony fingers through his tangled hair, but found the action quite painful. He sighed and his head drooped onto his paper laden desk. A clunking sound resonated through his head, and he felt a dull pain on his forehead. Nathaniel groaned wearily and lifted his head. He felt around the table and his fingers touched a cold piece of metal, 'My scrying glass,' murmured Nathaniel in the dark. It had lost its shining luster, and had turned into a dull disc that distorted his reflection.

'_That kid from the alley... Little spy..._'

'Kitty?' Nathaniel's head turned from side to side as a new voice cut through his mind, 'Kitty, Kitty, Kitty...' groaned Nathaniel again and again, as his head fell towards his desk again. Bartimaeus' sardonic drawl was replaced by Kitty's livid tone. He could vividly remember the dead girl, with her straight, black hair, and obstinate temperament. He scowled as he remembered all the difficulty she had put him through.

'_Callous... Wicked... Heartless... Vain..._'

Her biting accusations came clearer in his head, than Bartimaeus' undecipherable statements. 'Who was she to generalize us magicians?' muttered Nathaniel angrily, 'the gall of that commoner...' She was a headstrong girl, and she clearly had no regard for the law. She had obviously despised magicians, Nathaniel most especially, and yet she had saved him, a fact Nathaniel had yet to completely comprehend. She had been his savior.

But now, all Kathleen Jones was to Nathaniel was a ghost.

* * *

Nathaniel found himself in a rather odd position when he woke up. He was sprawled on the floor with his right leg hanging off the seat of his desk chair and his scrying disk wedged between his fingers. His hair was in its usual state of disarray as he checked the clock which hung over his desk.

'Oh hell!' cursed Nathaniel as he bolted from the floor and jumped into the bathroom. He was out in moments with his hair in a dreadfully soggy state and his incredibly tight suit was askew. He ran to his desk and rammed all of his papers into his leather satchel and descended his staircase at a record speed and leapt out of his home and into his chauffeured car.

'G'day Mister Mandrake, sir,' said his driver in the most chipper tone he could manage. Surprisingly enough, Nathaniel had become quite acquainted with his chauffeur and found that Leonard Morris was quite the companionable fellow.

'Good day to you as well Lenny,' replied Nathaniel, in a less than chipper tone as he attempted to settle himself in a comfortable position in the plush, green, leather seat of the car with his bulky satchel in tow.

'You don't seem to be too eager today, sir?' remarked Lenny in his usual optimistic brogue, 'Bad night I suppose? Something dreadful going on in the office? I'm certain that it must have been quite something to throw you off track today, sir.'

Nathaniel grinned subtly at the man's disregard for status, a quality Nathaniel could respect him for, or reprimand him for. Fortunately it was the former, 'the former I suppose Lenny, though I'd rather stray from the topic than get into it too much,' said the young boy carefully, as he addressed the older man, 'So, how is your family?

'Oh, they're simply wonderful Mister Mandrake, my son had just...' Nathaniel had at first found it strange that an older man had been addressing him as "sir" or as "mister," but he had gotten used to it. He no longer heard the words coming from Lenny's mouth, but Nathaniel nodded and laughed whenever it seemed appropriate, as he was taught to do so, but once again he was lost in his thoughts. He looked at everything that passed by in his car, but he only saw the commoners, stopping in the streets to try and peer into the tinted windows of the car, but with phlegmatic causality.

They were aware of so little, but seemed to know so much more.

'Well, off to work you go Mister Mandrake,' said Lenny as he pulled to a smooth stop, 'Good luck at work sir, though I'm certain that you'll pull through,' said the driver with a conversational grin. Nathaniel smiled quickly at him and exited the car with relative ease. Entering the building, Nathaniel greeted anyone who crossed his path in the many corridors with a slight flick of the wrist or a casual nod as he made his way to his office.

But before he could twist the door knob open, he heard a loud, harried cry from behind him, 'Mister Mandrake! Mister Mandrake, sir!' Nathaniel turned around in surprise, and found a foliot in the guise of a youth not older than him, 'The Prime Minister requests your presence. He deems the subject matter quite urgent.'

A spark in Nathaniel's eye lit up as he heard those words; perhaps he had remembered that it was soon to be his birthday. Mister Devereaux had been quite generous to him over the span of his career, and it wasn't completely implausible. Nodding carefully, Nathaniel followed the foliot to where Devereaux had been waiting. Nathaniel entered one of the many conference rooms and there he found Devereaux, alone, pacing around the room calmly.

'Ah, Mandrake, at last,' said Devereaux as he glanced at his watch quickly, 'Running a bit late today aren't you?' He sat down on a seat which was at the head of the table and gestured for Nathaniel to do the same.

Nathaniel hastily sat on the chair, across from that of Devereaux's, 'Pardon me sir, I'm afraid that-'

'It's perfectly fine Mandrake,' interjected Devereaux quickly, 'Anyway, I'm assuming that Loggins spoke to you of the urgency of this matter,' said Devereaux, referring to the foliot which had lead him to the conference room, 'So let us not waste anymore time, and let us delve into the subject now.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Yes, well there are two matters which I need to speak with you on,' continued Devereaux, 'First of all, I've noticed, along with a few others, that you've yet to summon a competent demon to do your bidding.'

'Sir, I've realized that but you see-'

Devereaux held out a hand to silence the boy. 'Your excuses aren't necessary Mandrake, but considering your current position, you will need some assistance in handling your daily activities, and though I trust that you will find a demon to your liking soon enough, I have taken the liberty of hiring a personal assistant for you,' the door from behind Nathaniel opened and a short girl with long dark hair entered the room, 'Mandrake, meet Annika Farber, my cousin's daughter.'

'It's very nice to meet you Mister Mandrake,' said Farber in a hesitant tone. Nathaniel gave her an apathetic nod.

'I trust you need no orientation Farber,' the skittish girl nodded, and Devereaux waved a hand to dismiss her. 'Now to the second matter I wish to discuss with you,' said Devereaux in a hushed voice as Farber left the room. Nathaniel's ears perked up, hoping that Devereaux's announcement had to do with a specific date, 'Now, I believe I shan't need to stress the confidentiality on this matter.' Nathaniel nodded, 'Excellent. A threat had been sent to the government, and it appears that a new resistance group has been formed, but it doesn't seem as if this group was formed by commoners, we have reason to believe that the group would be composed of rogue magicians or a few demons.'

Nathaniel's spirits sank for a moment, but the entire affair intrigued him, 'What reasons would those be sir?' Nathaniel asked respectfully.

From beneath the table, Devereaux retrieved a small pile of folders and took out a small stack of photographs. He slid them across the table and Nathaniel gathered them dexterously, 'You'll see that it isn't quite likely that commoners sent the threat.'

Nathaniel scanned the photographs which lay in his hands. The pictures were mostly of a brick wall in some random back alley, but what distinguished the picture were the crudely scratched words that seemed to be smoldering. The jagged and serrated sides of the words were far too crude to be cut by any sort of instrument; it looked as if a large claw had done it. Nathaniel studied the photograph intently and was perplexed by what had been cut into the wall, 'But Sir, the words do not seem to make any sense,' said Nathaniel, studying the picture, 'Is it in some sort of code or cipher?'

Devereaux smiled broadly at Nathaniel's aptitude, 'Quick deduction, Mandrake,' said Devereaux in approval, after taking a decagonal staff from beneath the table he walked over to Nathaniel and from his pocket he took a long strip of paper, 'Have you heard of the Spartan scytale?

'I'm not too familiar with cryptography sir.'

'Yes, well, I thought as much,' Devereaux gave a quick smile and proceeded to explain, 'We had immediately come up with the conclusion that it was indeed a code, we had tried many patterns, but none of the results made sense, until we tried the Spartan scytale. I shan't bore you with the scytale's history, but we basically wrote the letters from top to bottom onto this strip of paper and wound it around on the staff,' Devereaux demonstrated, 'And thus, here are the results:

'A hand at the level of an ever wary eye,  
We shall reveal the masked distortion,  
Set a plague upon the crackling face,  
Strangle the truth from the condemned souls...'

'Interesting,' was the only reply that came from Nathaniel, 'It sounds strangely familiar though, especially the first line.'

Devereaux smiled broadly at Nathaniel once more, 'Indeed, Mandrake,' he said, 'By these clues we were given in this threat, we can logically deduce that they are after the Phantom's Mask.'

'Very operatic.'

'I thought so as well,' said Devereaux with a chuckle, 'The Phantom's Mask is a very potent relic which was said to originate from France, though its current position is unknown to us. Although most of its properties and functions are still a mystery to us, we have confirmed knowledge that the Mask, when put on, shows the truth; it reveals the essence or core of whatever you look at. It is also rumored to have been utilized as an offensive weapon, but we have yet to receive any confirmation or information,' explained Devereaux.

'And you would like for me to retrieve this Mask before the resistance group does?'

'Precisely Mandrake,' replied Devereaux, as he retrieved a folder and handed it to Nathaniel, 'We have gathered some research, regarding the Phantom's Mask, but I'm afraid that it will not be enough for you to be able to successfully retrieve it. So, I would like you to first see what you can find on the Mask, and of course, uncover the resistance group and hinder them from capturing the mask.' Devereaux studied Nathaniel as he calmly sorted through the documents, 'I'm certain that your abilities will match up to these tasks.'

'Yes, of course, sir,' replied Nathaniel in a hushed voice.

Devereaux glanced at the boy again, with a more sympathetic eye, 'It seems that something is bothering you today John,' said Devereaux, 'Does Annika seem a bit too skittish for you? Or perhaps the task has had you a bit overwhelmed?'

Nathaniel shook his head hastily, 'Oh no Mister Devereaux, I don't mind at all.'

'Then what is it Mandrake?' asked Devereaux, he raised an eyebrow in thought, 'Hmm, what date is it today boy?'

'It's November the-'

'Of course!' exclaimed Devereaux instantly, 'Your birthday is coming up, isn't it John? I believe in two days from now,' Nathaniel nodded, 'Well then, you may take the day off then and do what you wish, though I'm afraid that there is a bit too much to do to allow me to give you a vacation.'

'It's quite alright, sir.' responded Nathaniel, unable to hide the large grin on his face, 'Do you have anything else to say to me, Mister Devereaux?' He began arranging the folders and documents into his satchel.

'No, nothing more Mandrake,' answered Devereaux. 'You may go.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You're quite welcome.'

Nathaniel gave a curt bow before the Prime Minister and exited the room, his excitement contained. As the door behind him clicked to a close, he was greeted by a barrage of stutters, 'Mister Mandrake, sir!' Nathaniel groaned as he saw his new assistant, Annika something or another; skip (and trip) up to him in the most ungainly fashion, 'Mister Mandrake, sir! May I take your bag?' she made an edgy grab for his satchel, but he snatched it away from her reach immediately.

'There is no need Miss...' Nathaniel replied brusquely, drawing a blank on her name.

'Farber! Annika Farber, sir,' replied Farber skittishly, scratching her head in anxiety, 'Mister Devereaux said to me that I was in charge of telling you your schedule, so I suppose that I will tell you your schedule now?' she looked at Nathaniel, expecting an answer.

He gave her a steely glance, and began heading towards his office, 'I suppose so.

She inhaled sharply as she scurried after him and began talking, 'Miss Malbindi requests your presence in half an hour, afterwards you shall lunch with Miss Whitwell, and after that Mister Leonard Morris shall take you to a public conference.'

Reaching his office, Nathaniel entered it smoothly, and faced Farber sharply, 'Thank you Miss Farber.' And with that he shut the door.

'Mister Mandrake! Mister Mandrake! Sir, you seemed to have locked the door on me!' wailed the girl in the most annoying voice Nathaniel had ever heard. Leaning against the door with a weak groan, he tried to block out Farber's squeaky sniveling, but failed horribly.

* * *

After an excruciatingly long day, Nathaniel collapsed onto the floor of his townhouse as soon as the door behind him shut close. His new assistant may have had good intentions, but she was simply too... anxious to accomplish anything professionally. Still, Devereaux had seemed rather proud of her, being blood related to the jumpy girl, and Nathaniel did not want to upset him after all he had done for him.

After he had managed to get up, Nathaniel walked over to a balcony which displayed London, and all its subtle wonder. The sun was about to set over the dark buildings, casting a soft, but fading glow upon everything. He was getting closer and closer to his fifteenth year, and regardless of Devereaux's present, Nathaniel did not really look forward to his birthday.

His fifteenth year didn't seem to have any more significance than his fourteenth. He was toeing the line between the two great forces, past the point of no return, but unable to cross the border, but the border wasn't only between the two years .

The line between Nathaniel and John Mandrake had been growing thinner and thinner as each day passed, he had been too blind to see it, and his ears had also fallen deaf to Bartimaeus' calm warning. Nathaniel could only catch a glimpse of it now, as he delved into the depths of his mind. Scoffing to himself, as he realized that this revelation came quite late in his life, as short as it had been, he knew that there was no way for him to offset all that he had done. It was not that he was unhappy with his life. It was that confusion and doubt began to seep in, and truth seemed to elude him each time he made a grab for it.

Unhooking the latch of his satchel, he rummaged through the papers and when his fingers brushed against a cool sheet of metal, he pulled out his scrying disc and fingered it in thought. '_Was this scrying disc all that remained from before, when John Mandrake barely existed?_' Nathaniel reflected pensively upon the dull piece of bronze, '_the trousers, the suit, the townhouse; all of it belongs to John Mandrake, but not this...'_

Glancing once more at the relic of his past, Nathaniel frowned at its lack of luster. When he'd first had it, it was shining with a gleam Nathaniel had worked hard on, and he wanted to see that gleam once more. Nathaniel got up from his current position and went into the kitchen to search for a rag and some polish. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he got to work, applying the polish onto the rag and buffing the disc.

Its glint was returning, and Nathaniel polished it even more eagerly. Nathaniel now saw the disc as he had seen it years before, when he had first had it. The pride he had in the disc was returning little by little, as its newfound luster gleamed eagerly at him.

He studied his newly buffed scrying disk with a contained pride. It had been a dull piece of metal for the longest time, but with Nathaniel's help, it had returned to its normal state and lost its faded façade.

Well past the point of no return, Nathaniel could only think with a dying hope, '_Perhaps there is a chance of turning back..._'

* * *

And with that I bid you all adieu, and merci bu coup, the weird thing is that I don't speak French, but what the heck… Anyway, thank you so much for reading my fic, and I hope that you enjoy it. Could you please leave a review to let me know how you liked it, whether or not you did, I mean. I don't mind constructive criticism, and nitpicking, since I think that I would pretty much do the same. Thanks! 


	2. Nathaniel: Demons of a Different Sort

Neeps... Sorry for taking such a long time to update. I really am horribly lazy, and I know, I should change it. But I guess that's what summer vacation does to you. Bugger; let's just get on with it. Another Nathaniel chapter, I'm afraid. Kitty will come soon enough, and Bartimaeus as well. Anyway, I think that I've made Nathaniel a bit of an ass this chapter. So, this is an apology in advance for whatever he does in this story... After all, I am the writer. Bah, I'll shut up.

**Angel of Darkness**- Wow! Thanks a lot for such a great review, but you know what? I had actually realized that I hadn't gone into much detail in the last chapter. In this chapter, I think that you'll be able to see how I developed Farber's character... After all that was just the first chapter; sort of her introduction, but thanks anyway! I'm happy that you gave your comments.

**Kettch-22**- In a way I suppose. I mean, the stories are hardly going to have any similarities, but you'll eventually see the direction I'm headed towards. Thanks for reading by the way!

**Simply Myself**- Hmm, thanks. I guess you can say that I edit my work, I mean, it takes me eons to write (probably because I'm so lazy) and I'm really a big fanatic on proper grammar and spelling. I'm quite O.C. about it sometimes. Gah, I really should know when to shut up.

**Black Skittles**- Thanks a lot for reading! Nathaniel may be a prat, but goodness knows we love him just the same.

**Bowles**- Heh heh, I read your story as well. Needless to say, I quite like your Morris! Anyway, thanks a lot for stopping by and reading.

_**The Phantom's Mask**_

_**Chapter Two  
**_

_Nathaniel: Demons of a Different Sort_

The sunset that Nathaniel beheld was breathtaking. It cast soft, amber rays over the lackluster buildings, radiating an evanescent ocher into the depthless sky. Yet Nathaniel was left in the suffocating darkness of his town house. For a moment, he wondered why he had been so attentive to the sunsets, but he cursed himself immediately as he encountered yet another deviation from his work.

After a day of searching through musty libraries and endless file cabinets, Nathaniel retired from Whitehall and headed directly to his town house. Much to the blubbering anxiety of Annika Farber, he had fled from her attention as quick as he possibly could and jumped into the chauffeured car, which sped immediately from Whitehall. Nathaniel ignored Lenny's more than audible sniggers and offhand remarks and relished in his momentary tranquility without Annika.

She seemed to be a nice girl with genuine intentions, but her incompetence was starting to prod Nathaniel to the edge. In her first day, she managed to knock down two thirds of the objects in his office, trip numerous times over someone's feet, if not her own, get her foot stuck in a trash can, overturn her desk, and get tangled into a mesh of telephone cords. Devereaux had been oblivious to his cousin's daughter's performance, and Nathaniel had no intention of telling him.

Nathaniel winced as his attention strayed from his workload again. He swiveled his chair towards his desk and stared at the stack of dusty books and brittle documents that were scattered over the desktop. He had spent a few hours scouring the library at Whitehall, and he had only managed to find less than an armful of books and a dozen or so documents that could possibly have a relation to the Phantom's Mask. After reading each book and studying each document three times over, Nathaniel had taken down notes whenever he had found anything that would seem relevant to his investigation. Yet so far, his observations had only filled three pages in his notebook, and most of the information he found, Nathaniel had already known.

'This will not be a substantial start,' moaned Nathaniel as flipped through the pages of his mostly empty notebook. He picked up another one of the books and read it once more, ignoring its fusty texture. Although he had an affinity for old books, he was beginning to feel the mold peel onto his hands and harden underneath his nails. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Groaning to himself, Nathaniel dropped the book and stumbled out of his chair. He walked through his house, which had recently gone under a minimalist makeover. Most of the furniture he had acquired over the months he lived in the townhouse, he had kept in storage. He resorted to minimalism when he chose to refurbish his house. The few colors that dominated his home were black, white, and silver and the sleek design of his custom-made furniture added a professional and mature undertone to his house. But as much as Nathaniel tried, he still couldn't picture his townhouse as a home.

Nathaniel stopped at one of the doors in a long, yet narrow hallway. The door was fashioned identically to the other doors that surrounded it, but as Nathaniel turned its smooth knob, a different world appeared and greeted him. The one room he had chosen to leave unchanged was his library. Although he had taken a leaf out of Jessica Whitwell's book when regarding the change of style, he had strangely refused to remodel his library and the books that inhabited it. Nathaniel had originally planned to bind all of his books in uniformed leather, but after he had delayed doing so for such a long time, he had grown to love his books. As strange as it sounds, he valued the individuality he found in all of them, as he stroked their covers and admired their impeccable printing. He couldn't bring himself to condemn his books to an ugly uniformity. So, he kept them, and his library untouched throughout the entire process of renovation.

Running his hand over the spines of his books, scanning the titles briefly, Nathaniel was distracted as he tried to find a book that would assist him in his work. As he inhaled the stale, yet welcoming smell of the room, his mind clouded and all sense of urgency escaped him. Randomly, he pulled out a book and opened it carefully.

It turned out to be a book on demons and other evil spirits, whether mythological or not. The book must have been printed extremely early in time, as it referred to demons as 'daemons' and 'daimons'. Nathaniel had been quite familiar with the text in the book, as he had read it over and over in his spare time. It was simply by chance that he had pulled it from its place in the shelf.

Nathaniel's eyes swept over its cover. The slowly decaying emerald leather had been embossed with a number of archaic and forgotten characters. In the bottom right corner of the cover was a small, but intricate pattern of latticed lines and spiraling shapes crafted into a pentagonal shape. And in the symbols center, Nathaniel could barely make out a few faded characters from the same text used in the upper part of the book cover. The characters and the symbol had long remained a mystery to him, since no books or files shed any light over the two.

'Daemons,' recited Nathaniel monotonously after he opened it to a random page, 'are notorious for their manipulative and conniving mannerisms. Some have been known to haunt the minds and spirits of unwitting victims until they are driven to the brink of madness,' the unsavory thought of Bartimaeus lingered in his mind, 'Many a daemon are granted powers far above human perception, yet the vital key to superiority is possessed by humans, as they are able to summon and control such entities,' Nathaniel smirked at this note, 'But still, renegade daemons, those powerful enough to escape control, have the ability to manipulate humans, whether through subtle or unconcealed ways,' Nathaniel turned the page subconsciously, all sense of his loyalty to his work disappeared, 'These daemons have the ability to linger in a humans mind. They haunt the humans through memories of previous, unpleasant encounters, in which the daemon manifests itself into the hallucination it creates. Though the process has no approximate duration, the human is eventually guaranteed a descent into the primitive, senseless recesses of his or her mind.'

Nathaniel shut the book carefully and his fingers rapped softly upon it as he thought to himself. Demons came in all shapes and sizes and they could connive as easily as wizards could conjure. Though wizards held power, ultimately, could it withstand the wrath of the oppressed entities?

A sudden shriek jarred Nathaniel's thoughts in a fleeting instant. It had disappeared only a moment after Nathaniel had heard it. His heart raced as he jumped from his seat. The book fell to a dull thud on the carpeted floor. Nathaniel's head pivoted every which way, trying to figure out where the scream had come from. He raced from the library and darted through his hallways. Broken into a cold sweat, he stopped at his balcony.

Cradling his head in his arms as he leant on the cool metal railing, Nathaniel tried hard to remember the scream in his mind. The timbre sounded feminine, as its pitch was rather high. It was excruciatingly piercing, yet the pain had disappeared in a fleeting instant. As short as the scream may have been, it was imprinted into his mind. It replayed over and over, like a haunting melody that left you in a dark, frigid place in your mind. And the more he heard it in his mind, the more he found a hidden familiarity laced within in.

And within the dead of the night, he heard the voice again. Nathaniel was jarred from his thoughts and he staggered to the floor. It shrieked as loud as it had before, yet this time, he was sure that he heard something else.

'_Nathaniel!'_

Few knew his birth name, and two of them had already been lost from the world. Nathaniel knew that none of them possessed a voice such as that, yet he was so certain that he had heard such a voice before. Perhaps it was Bartimaeus' disquieting memory. As the book he read had stated, demons had the ability to mess with your mind. Nathaniel knew that Bartimaeus was not above that, but it would be near impossible for him to accomplish something like that. And Nathaniel doubted that Bartimaeus would go to such lengths.

This was the work of something else, whether an unknown power or his failing sanity.

'I need help,' muttered Nathaniel as he slumped against the metal railing of his balcony. His voice was dripping with sarcasm, yet he meant it completely. His work demanded stability, whether physically, emotionally, or mentally, and at the moment Nathaniel felt reasonably vulnerable. 'A lot of help,' he muttered again. The frigid lock that seemed to have shut down on his legs wouldn't allow him to get up, and exhaustion got the better of him. In a matter of moments, his eyes drooped to a close and sleep overcame him.

* * *

A sickly splat awoke Nathaniel the next day. He looked up in shock to find a rather large pigeon caught in his drain pipe in a seemingly futile attempt to fly. Its backside was glaring Nathaniel in the face and left a little present for him. Groaning in disgust, he took out a handkerchief and wiped off what the sordid pigeon secreted. After he wiped off whatever was on his face, he immediately winced at he realized just what he used to wipe off the pigeon waste. The handkerchief was too many pounds expensive.

This was not a pleasant way to start the day.

His hair was disheveled. He had fallen asleep in a very expensive suit, which was now rumpled and stained. He had a cold from sleeping in the open air and from inhaling whatever fumes he was spared from when he was inside his townhouse. And to top it all of he was fifteen minutes away from being late for work.

Although the realization of the last statement had come late, as soon as it had, Nathaniel bounded from his slumped position and ran through the door of his balcony. After muttering a few obscenities he jumped into his bathroom and shed his no longer desirable clothes and took the quickest shower he had in his life (it had surprisingly beat the one he had yesterday). He rammed all of his papers and necessary books into his satchel, which was bursting at its seams by the time he finished. He grabbed a bagel from his kitchen and bolted out the door.

His chauffeured car was waiting there as usual. Lenny was leaning against the passenger's door and he had an expecting look on his face and tapped his watch with a disapproving look on his face, 'My, my, Mister Mandrake... When the people at Whitehall find that the Head of Internal Affairs is tardy, it will certainly blemish your so far spotless reputation.' Nathaniel scowled at Lenny's sick sense of humor.

'Morris, you will drive as fast as you possibly can,' snarled Nathaniel, refusing to play along, 'Without any regard for pedestrians, laws, or even your personal health! I need to get to work as quickly as possible!' It would hardly be appropriate for him to show up late and looking rather rumpled after all Mister Devereaux had done for him. He was looking forward to his free day tomorrow, and tardiness could set off the Prime Minister's fuse.

'Now, Mister Mandrake, you know that custom prevents me from driving any faster than recommended,' sarcasm was laced so intricately in his cockney accent, 'but perhaps there are some things that could sway my dedication to the rules?' Nathaniel raised his eyebrows at this statement. Corruption seemed so far from the carefree, albeit simpleminded and asinine chauffeur. Lenny continued with a glint in his eyes, 'You see sir; I'd gotten up quite early to be here. I left my wife's side so early that you'd think she was married to a ghost. And after bolting out my front door, thinking that you'd be up and ready out of professional courtesy, I completely forget to have any breakfast!' Lenny eyed Nathaniel's bagel with a delirious sort of hunger.

Nathaniel's eyebrows fell back down and the shock that overwhelmed him vanished in an instant. Of course, food was the only thing that controlled Lenny's heart and mind. Sighing, Nathaniel stared longingly at the sesame seed speckled bagel before throwing it to an eager Lenny Morris. He caught it deftly and in a swift movement he opened the car door, 'Get in, Mister Mandrake, you have a tardy notice to avoid!'

Nathaniel scowled at his chauffeur before sliding into the car. Lenny shut the door with an audible click after loud chuckle and got into the driver's seat as well. In a matter of moments, the car roared into action and all Nathaniel saw from his window was a blur of the outside world. He sighed and leant into the plush, cushioned seats.

'Mister Mandrake, sir!' called Lenny, his voice a bit frantic, 'The next stoplight there is still green. Shall I speed it?'

But before Nathaniel could reply with a biting remark, the car skidded to a halt, 'Damn!' yelled Lenny, hitting his steering wheel. Nathaniel looked out to find that they were directly under a stoplight, and he could see a glaring red radiating.

Laughing out of spite, Nathaniel looked out the window at a sight he saw each day. Although he frequented trips throughout the streets of Westminster, he had hardly ever paid full attention to what surrounded him. Nathaniel looked around, searching for familiarity, anything that he may have remembered as he passed the streets. But he saw nothing that reminded him of anything. They were only people, setting out to live their lives, as he was doing himself. Caught in the drab colors of London, and blending into the background so well.

But then one thing caught his mind. For a brief moment, a vibrant burst of black sped along the streets, a lot faster than the lethargic, almost requisite pace others had taken. It was a girl from what Nathaniel could tell, as her black hair whipped past her face and flew behind her. She seemed to be carrying a rather large bundle. Nathaniel squinted into his window to get a better view of her, suddenly intrigued by her presence.

But in that brief moment, his focus was shattered and he fell back into the cushioned seat of the car. The stoplight had suddenly turned green and Lenny had hit the gas pedal as quickly as his reflexes allowed him to. Nathaniel learned with a sudden disappointment that Lenny's reflexes were indeed quite alert.

After a few more minutes and a few disregarding safety precautions, Nathaniel had made it to Whitehall, surprisingly unscathed. Lenny had opened the door for him and offered Nathaniel a cheeky grin, 'Believe me Mister Mandrake, it was a bagel well spent.'

Glaring at the loud mouthed chauffeur, Nathaniel slid out from the car seat and hurried into the building. Yet the moment he stepped into the carpeted he was bombarded with another wave of thick black hair. Nathaniel groaned as soon as he realized who it was.

'Mister Mandrake! I thought that you were going to be late! Not that you are of course, since you are early! Well you aren't really early, but that doesn't mean you're late! You're on time, yes on time!' Nathaniel winced inwardly as the poor girl babbled on and on, 'It's good to be on time isn't it? I mean it's better than being late, but not as good as being early... Not that there's anything wrong with you being on time! I mean, maybe being early is a bit overrated, wouldn't you say? There's all that-'

'Miss Farber, would you please acquiesce with my request for you to cease spouting off your inane prattle?' spoke Nathaniel in the coldest voice he could manage. He stared her down for a few moments and continued through the corridor, making his way to his office.

She shriveled underneath his withering gaze and shut her mouth, but it did not stop her from trailing after her boss. They wove their way through the mess of wizards and demons and after a few more moments, Nathaniel found himself inside his office.

The four walls, decorated with frames and other tacked up knickknacks were a comforting sight to Nathaniel. It was a reliable place when he wanted to escape the corridors filled with shady demons and work driven magicians. The events that had taken place last night came to mind and he would have to approach them cautiously. Nathaniel dropped his worn satchel onto his desk and he swiveled around to face his personal assistant, 'Miss Farber, if you would indeed like to be of assistance to me, I would have to ask a favor of you.'

'Oh, anything Mister Mandrake!' replied the girl immediately, jumping at his call, 'Mister Devereaux gave me this job and I wouldn't want to disappoint him! I mean, it would ruin him if I ruined you. Not that I have any plans of ruining you! I'm sorry, Sir, it just came out of my mouth!' The girl babbled as a vein in Nathaniel's forehead popped.

'Miss Farber!' reprimanded Nathaniel in a brusque tone, cutting her off, 'What had I said earlier about your prattle?' Her eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut in an unattractive fashion, 'Now, this favor I shall ask of you is to remain confidential. You do know what 'confidential means, right?' There was an unnecessary nastiness in his voice, but there was something unsavory about the girl. He wasn't even quite sure why he was entrusting her with such a task.

She nodded erratically.

'Excellent,' responded Nathaniel dryly, 'And you shan't ask any questions. Understood?' She nodded again, 'Lovely. Now, I need you to find me a psychiatrist, not too high profile, but with satisfactory credentials and schedule an appointment for him or her to meet me in my townhouse after work.' He glanced at her pointedly as he leant on his desk, 'Is that clear Miss Farber?'

She nodded less erratically, but she glanced at Nathaniel with a confused look, 'So, that would mean I would have to give him your address?'

It took Nathaniel all the self-control he possessed to keep from lashing out at the girl. Instead he gave her the coldest glare he could manage and through clenched teeth he spoke, 'I shall leave you to make that decision on your own Miss Farber.' The girl stayed rooted in her spot, 'Now go!'

She let out a shrill whimper, but bolted for the door immediately. Nathaniel scowled to himself as soon as she was out the door. He walked around his desk and fell into his cushy swivel chair. After a moment of stress relieving reflection, Nathaniel picked up his satchel and started emptying out its contents. All of the books, documents, and notes cascaded in a careless manner onto his desk. The books toppled loudly upon the hard wood and the documents limply flew lightly over the surface. All the regard he held for old books and documents had vanished at that moment and a deeper scowl formed on Nathaniel's face as soon as he saw the scrying disk fall out as well.

It landed on its side on one of the books. It twirled a few times before falling flat on its face. Nathaniel glanced at it cautiously, as it flickered defiantly in the bright lighting of his office. Slowly, his arm extended towards it, his fingers outstretched and his gaze fixated. He could almost feel the coolness of the metal radiate onto his fingers.

'Mandrake!'

His fingers recoiled as the door to his office flung open, only to reveal a disheveled George Ffoukes. There were dark rings under his eyes and his hair was jutting out in a number of odd places, 'Mister Mandrake, sir!' Ever since Nathaniel's promotion, Ffoukes had taken his previous position, 'I've found a few names that may help our case.' He handed Nathaniel a scrap of paper.

'Few' was the vital word in Ffoukes statement. He scanned the piece of paper quickly only to find six names written in Ffoukes illegible penmanship. Nathaniel glanced at him skeptically, 'Devereaux briefed you on the mission?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Ffoukes courteously. Nathaniel could see a faint twitching in his left eyebrow, 'Mister Devereaux has only informed a select few in our department, and I was worthy enough to be one of them.' His chest was puffed up with so much pride and it sickened Nathaniel.

'Well, did he tell you about what would be happening tomorrow?' A sadistic, yet weary grin spread over Nathaniel's face. It was quite a fun sport, watching your underlings squirm under your gaze. It was simply Nathaniel's long due payback to George Ffoukes.

Ffoukes looked shocked, needless to say. He had worked hard to ascend in the political ladder and Nathaniel knew it. 'No, sir...' Nathaniel smirked inwardly as he heard a loud gulp from Ffoukes. He knew it was wrong, but all of the built up sadism within him had to be released, 'Uh, Mister Devereaux hadn't told me anything about tomorrow...'

'I suppose it's for the better then,' responded Nathaniel in his most flippant voice, 'I wonder why, though. He told me that he only told those he trusted. I mean, he told Old man Jenkins, the janitor! He even told Jane Farrar, I'm sure. I thought that everyone would know, but I guess I was wrong.' His performance was award worthy, 'Oh! Not that I think you aren't reliable Ffoukes. I don't think that at all!'

Ffoukes stood rigid in his spot, surprisingly, it was the one Annika had occupied not too long ago. He stammered and his voice choked as he spoke, 'Thanks you Mister Mandrake, sir. I'm certain that Mister Devereaux had good reasons to keep me in the dark.' Nathaniel chuckled inwardly as the gaunt magician was reduced to a quaking mass by his fourteen year old superior. 'Is there anything I can assist you with?'

Nathaniel's attention returned to the scrap of paper handed to him, 'Yes, I would like you to find the contact details of the people you've written down here, as well as background checks.' Nathaniel returned the scrap of paper to him, 'Give them to me when you are finished and afterwards, fetch me a copy of the Phantom of the Opera?'

His assistant cocked an eyebrow upwards, 'Do you think that it would have any relation to the actual mask? I mean, it is fiction after all.'

'I know that, but there may be a connection. Whether the fictional mask was inspired by the actual mask or if the actual mask was inspired by the fictional mask.' Nathaniel sat pensively in his chair, 'It would most likely be the former, but I would like to check some thing. Are we clear?'

'Of course.'

'Good,' nodded Nathaniel with conviction, 'I shall see you later.'

* * *

A few hours had passed since Ffoukes has left his office. The scrying disk was brushed back into his satchel and he cleared his thoughts of it. Nathaniel was alone and he had a new stack of old books on his desk. Scribbling down notes at a quick rate, even though their significance could have been minimal, Nathaniel's attention was completely focused on his work. He knew that the pen in his hand was starting to spew ink over his hands, but that didn't keep him from scrawling on and on.

After a few more minutes had passed the pen had finally given away, and large blots of black ink had fallen upon his crudely made notes. Cursing loudly to himself, Nathaniel reached for a starched handkerchief that lay across his desk.

His fingers suddenly recoiled as it was centimeters away from the handkerchief. A dark form had eclipsed the napkin and a large portion of his office. Nathaniel froze in his position with a growing confusion, '_It's twelve o'clock in the afternoon. Why on earth would there be a shadow, this long nonetheless?' _he thought skeptically. The shadow seemed to form a body, a woman's body, most likely. But the shadow was long and disproportionate. It cast a wave of disquieting darkness over Nathaniel.

A hissing sound found its way to Nathaniel's ear. Garbled sounds (that were too unintelligible to be called words) in sleek, yet disturbing tones that sounded so familiar. Yet Nathaniel had never experienced such a feeling before. It seemed as though all of the blood had drained from his face and vision was unclear and distorted. His body was frozen in place, but his mind was racing.

Breathing heavily, Nathaniel gripped the armrest of his swivel chair tightly. Something must have been behind him. Disregarding the time, something, or someone must have been creating the shadow. Quickly turning around in his chair, Nathaniel was ready to face whatever was behind him.

Only to find nothing, but a lovely view of Westminster.

Turning back again, the shadow had disappeared, yet Nathaniel's anxiety had not. Therapy sounded lovely at that moment, and the sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach only increased his yearning. In a similar fashion to this morning's events, Nathaniel swept all of his work into his satchel, without any regard for value or fragility. He sped out of his office and ran as fast as he could outside Whitehall, trailing ink as he went.

* * *

Neeps... Sorry for anything you are displeased with. Everything after all, is accountable to me since I'm the author. As they say, 'absolute power corrupts absolutely.' And who's to say that I haven't been corrupted by power. Sigh, delicious power... Argh, I better stop talking now, I don't think it's healthy. Anyway, thanks for reading, and if you still are, I apologize for my incessant babbling. Gar! I'll stop now! But one last note! Please don't forget to review! Thanks! 


	3. Nathaniel: I Am There, Inside

I haven't died. Really, I haven't. I may have fallen off the face of the planet, but I'm back and kicking (my sodding internet connection and malfunctioning laptop). I'm very sorry to the few who have waited for this installment. I have no excuses really, well, I do, but I doubt that you'd want to hear them. They're pretty generic, you know, like school, familial obligations, utter laziness, and lack of inspiration. So, really, I apologize. Bah, I think I sort of lost the plot of the story, but after extensive reading, and rereading, I can now vaguely recall the direction I was heading towards. And that's good enough for me!

I really appreciate everyone who was kind enough to review. I don't appreciate lurkers, but that's pretty hypocritical of me, seeing as how I lurk a lot (for that, I can blame my bloody internet connection which oftentimes prevents me from submitting a review). Oh well, I'm not one to impose my beliefs and principals along with other people. This is a place of free expression, so do what you will, but hopefully, express something, in the form of a constructive review.

_**The Phantom's Mask**_

_**Chapter Three**_

_Nathaniel: I Am There, Inside_

As he felt the ground reverberate after foot pounded upon the gravel, Nathaniel felt a small, but slowly rising sense of relief. It meant that as he heard each reverberation, he got farther and farther away from Whitehall. Although he couldn't run as fast as he wanted to (his pants wouldn't let him) after rounding a few corners and skipping a few fire hydrants, his shoes skidded to a halt and he collapsed upon a strategically placed bench.

Lenny would give him Hell tomorrow, when he found out that Nathaniel hadn't been waiting for him. Disregarding his lack of integrity when it came to food, he was a man of routine. And when his routine was disrupted, he wrought his wrath upon the person who dared to change his schedule. The simpleminded chauffeur was convinced that bad things transpired when routines were broken. Shaking his head free from all thoughts of Leonard Morris, Nathaniel continued down the political mile of Westminster in a much calmer promenade. No one was after him, so why was he running?

He had passed a few blocks and found himself underneath the same traffic light that Lenny had failed to speed past. He noticed faint skid marks upon the road. Chortling at the memory of his disgruntled chauffeur, Nathaniel found himself staring around the street as he had through the car's window. The sights were more or less the same, but the view was completely different.

Although the sunlight hit the street at a different angle from a while ago, Nathaniel felt a far deeper difference of what he saw now, from what he saw in the morning. Less people walked up and about the street, most of them were introverted and they were sure to avoid him. He was presented with a whole new perspective; a whole new outlook on how to view the world which lay outside the tinted car window.

From within the motor vehicle, he was merely a spectator. It was like he was a visitor in a zoo, where he was protected by the metal bars that lay between him and the beasts. But on the warm pavement and crisp air, there was hardly any censorship. From behind his car window he could taunt the passersby and be safe from whatever retaliation they would bring. But on the streets, anything as small as a misinterpreted look or laugh, could cause bedlam. From behind the car window, the truth only cast off its faintest echoes. But now, he was immersed into whatever horrors lay within the streets.

It seemed odd to Nathaniel that he only had this musing now. He had walked through the streets of London many times before, but the circumstances had been quite different. He wasn't in the usual rush he was in. He had nowhere important to be. He had abandoned all of his work, but his mind was teeming with stressful thoughts. He managed to get away from work, but he had escaped nothing.

Was this some long, overdue breakdown? Had events in his short-lived life foreshadowed this inconvenient malfunction? No, life had been treating him well enough, up until the past week. He was given everything any magician would dream of, power and wealth, but the events he had recently experienced seemed to overshadow all the success he had garnered. It didn't seem possible. His life didn't seem to be unraveling, but its edges were slowly fraying.

He needed to pull them back together, before life was beyond repair.

A few months ago, he thought that he was untouchable. He held the respect of his colleagues. His was steadily rising in the favor of Rupert Devereaux. He was sitting atop a large amount of power, and his future could only predict even more success. Among young, aspiring magicians he had become an icon. With his status, power, and charming good looks, he had become a celebrity among young people. His seniors held him in the highest regard, and the mention of his name was constantly followed by murmurs of his latest accomplishments. But now, everything had been warped into this confusing episode which grossly resembled a breakdown.

He sighed and got up from the bench, and continued his long walk. Initially, he had no destination in mind, but now he just decided to head for home. He had closed the distance quite a bit after his lengthy sprint, but he still had a long way to go. His leather shoes were set to work once again.

He had walked a few yards away from the bench when a flurry of dark colors, black, gray, and brown had crashed blindingly into him. He could feel a clump of hair that wasn't his own in his mouth and fragmented breathing that did not come from his mouth. Nathaniel heard a loud 'Oomph' that sounded like his voice before the wind was completely knocked out of him by this dark colored snowball. A large brown sack came clattering out of the person's hands and a long parcel as well.

His wits were scattered about him, and the pressing weight of the person on top of him made it even more difficult to think. But the figure on top of him had much quicker reflexes. She- Nathaniel had figured that out quite easily- had sprung up easily before muttering a nearly inaudible, 'Sorry.' The blur of a woman swept up the parcel as easily as she had gotten up.

Her long legs began to work frantically underneath her billowing skirt, and she was a few yards away when Nathaniel had finally risen from his incapacitated state. Nathaniel was about to let it slip, seeing as how tired he was and how hysterical the woman seemed to be and how huge the burden she carried was, but as he stared at the back of her departing figure, his mouth fell open as she glanced back at him.

'_It can't be..._'

That face. It was a painful memory on distant nights. Now, it was a blurred resonance of something that should not be. It couldn't be. '_It probably wasn't,_' Nathaniel thought briefly, but a sharp pang in his gut forced him to act upon the conclusion he jumped on.

He began to run.

'Excuse me!' He yelled at her, expecting the woman to realize that he meant for her to stop, 'Miss!' But she wouldn't. She had heard him; he saw her whip her head back, along with the thick wave of black hair, when he had called out.

Determined not to let her and his sanity escape, he pumped his legs harder, which was difficult to do with his suit. But he was gaining ground over the rough pavement. He ran like a madman, swinging wildly at whatever got in his way. He accidentally knocked over a blind man and his incensed Yorkshire terrier began to nip at his heels, only fueling Nathaniel to run faster. His right elbow had caught an elderly lady in the jaw, and the colorful language she used would make a sailor weep. But it fell upon deaf ears.

She was only a foot or so away from him, and she was aware of it. Nathaniel was too polite to grab onto her hair or her skirt, but it had yet to dawn on him that chasing a woman and complete stranger in public was far from ethical as well.

He gritted his teeth in near frustration, and in one desperate and final attempt, he stretched out his legs and leaped.

The entire scene would have been a perfect climax, were it not for the large rip that broke the musty atmosphere of London. Nathaniel was about to land on the girl when he felt a sudden breeze in his nether regions, and all of his momentum had suddenly disappeared. He collapsed loudly onto the hard sidewalk and stared as clunky boots kicked dust into his face.

His legs had clenched together tightly and his hands flew to his backside. The seat of his pants had ripped cleanly in half and all Nathaniel could do was mask the tear and his humiliation. Thankfully, he had fallen on his back, so the unsightly split was mask, but his face and the entire scene had been on display for the many passersby.

'Damned suit!'

He prayed to every single divine entity he knew about that the small crowd around him would disperse.

But he didn't need to, as soon as the hysterical audience saw that he was a man of status, and the cold gaze that he showered upon them, they left without a word and continued on with their monotonous lives.

Looking back at the object of his pursuit, Nathaniel could see that she was staring back at him, even though her pace had not faltered. Her long hair whipped rebelliously through the air and flew across her face like a proud banner. Her hair hid the vicious smirk that was sprawled on her anonymous face.

While her hair nearly masked any distinguishing features on her face, Nathaniel was unable to mask the humiliation that was creeping into his.

Lying on the hard pavement, Nathaniel groaned to himself, '_It's going to be a long walk home._'

And suddenly, he found himself wishing he hadn't interrupted Lenny's routine.

* * *

'_That crotchety old hag!_' Nathaniel was fuming inside as he forcefully slammed the door to his townhouse shut. The newspaper, which he had stolen from an unwitting old man, dropped to the carpeted floor of his foyer from the seat of his pants. The same old lady he had knocked down (and who had used her entire vocabulary of curses on him, and what a vocabulary it was) had seen Nathaniel skittering quickly past the street. She had not failed to notice the daily headlines that he kept close to his bottom. 

Nathaniel spent a better part of his walk home being prodded by a cackling hag (with the tongue of an incensed sailor) with her hardwood cane.

In his mind, which was became deliriously paranoid after the whole tearing incident, the Yorkie wasn't yipping at him. It was laughing him as he passed by, with sadism only a dog could manage. And with the crazy, telekinetic connection he shared with his blind owner, the old man (who Nathaniel figured was in cahoots with the batty woman) could see and enjoy his misery with his demonic mongrel.

Nathaniel's face was both ashen and red by the time he reached the safety of his home.

Visibly traumatized, Nathaniel was clearly out of his mind, perhaps he had whiffed too many of London's more potent stenches. 'This damn suit!' he yelled as he tugged against the tight material, but he stopped, for fear of aggravating the fabric any further, 'Is this the price of vanity!' he spoke so dramatically, gesticulating as grandly as the constricting fabric would allow him, 'Is vanity such a crime that some sick, strange god high up in his marble pedestal, should strike me beneath my silver buckled belt!'

The glaring literalness of that statement would have been pointed out, but there was no one else in the room to do so.

Or so it had first appeared.

'Mister Mandrake?' A voice with a foreign accent called from his living room.

'Avast!' Nautical language was unlike Nathaniel, but it came directly from his mouth, 'Who goes there? Has some fiend dared to intrude upon my premises! Curse you! I shall have to remove you myself!' His eyes became blurry and his movements were unsteady. A pain shot through his head and he became disillusioned even more. If he were in his right mind, he would have been very worried about himself.

But he wasn't, and the only thoughts that managed to come from his muddled mind were squashed out by his enormous headache. His hands flew to the sides of his head, in an attempt to rub his temples, but Nathaniel collapsed to the floor. A rich, yet ripping and discordant music attacked his ears. Angry hands seemed to be banging aggressively at the keys of an ancient organ, and its noise pierced through his eardrums. He let out a cry of anguish, and his fingers plugged into his ears in an attempt to mute the music.

His vision was blurred, but he could make out a pair of coarse, leather shoes approaching him. A face suddenly popped into view, but its features were mostly garbled by the searing pain and swirling colors. Nathaniel could make out mostly masculine features. Although his lips and eyebrows did look quite feminine, Nathaniel was in too much agony to appraise the strange man who was crouching before him.

His mouth was forming shapes that should have formed into words, but Nathaniel could hear nothing but the angry pealing that was going off inside his befuddled brain. He cradled his head so tightly, that his hands trembled each time the music hit a crescendo. Writhing around on the floor, in the fetal position, the music fell into a decrescendo and its tempo slowed.

For a moment, his heart slowed its erratic rhythm and he could clearly make out the man who kneeled before him. His hands were stretched out towards Nathaniel and his fingers were pointing towards his head. The man seemed to be preparing to strangle the life out of Nathaniel.

Before Nathaniel could sound his alarm and distress that a stranger was making such threatening gestures, another sound attacked his consciousness.

It wasn't music, but laughter; dry, humorless laughter that seized his mind, and blocked out any other sensation but pain.

The shooting pain in his head was more intense than the one brought on by the music. Although the cackling seemed to be the cause of the pain, Nathaniel felt as if it were the other way around. A voice in his head was displaying a streak of sadism that was fueled by the agony he was in.

Nathaniel thrashed wildly; his long limbs jutted out and jabbed in skewed angles. His edgy actions were partly an attempt to distract himself from the blinding pain, but mostly an attempt to swat away the strange man who tried to restrain him.

Both attempts were futile.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, the pain was swirling around in his head, distorting his senses and Nathaniel felt as if his mind was being violated. Nathaniel summoned all of his mental strength, and formed barriers to block the piercing probe that was entering his mind. He did his best to concentrate as the pain attempted to dissect and extract each thought and memory from his mind.

His defenses were quite strong, considering the circumstances, but each blow was putting a noticeable dent in his mental barricade. Just as Nathaniel was about to submit to this external force he felt two fingers on either side of his head. As if he were plugging his fingers into Nathaniel's mind, a new sensation flooded over the over stimulated boy.

However, instead of the jarring pain, he felt a cool flow of energy sweep past his head. It was neither pleasing nor intrusive, but it was certainly distracting him from the pain. It floated quietly through his mind and dulled the force that was causing his agony. The mental trespasser was being driven away by a mental salve that Nathaniel could not have been more grateful for. His breathing steadied its pace and his body lay flat on the marble floor.

His senses were recovering and he became acutely aware of his surroundings. A fly was buzzing impetuously at his ear and his body had broken out into a cold sweat, his suit seemingly shrinking and shrinking into his body. Feeling a slight buzzing in his head, Nathaniel wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed and sleep for all eternity.

But he was literally shaken out of this peaceful reverie, by the stranger who now looked upon him.

It was only now that Nathaniel had really gotten a good look at the very man who may have saved his life and sanity. He was a very handsome man, with dark hair and tanned skin. His facial features were as delicate as Nathaniel had noticed during his erratic convulsions, but his towering presence superceded any misconceptions about his masculinity. Nathaniel suddenly felt afraid and apprehensive under the piercing eye of this man.

'Who are you?' His words came out garbled as his mouth refused to contort into its proper positions. Nathaniel tried to pull himself from the floor, but his limbs weighed down heavily against the cool tiles. A new wave of sweat broke upon his forehead as Nathaniel realized that he should have been shaking in fear.

But he could not.

'I am Arséne Leroux,' replied the man, who was now sweeping the invisible dust that settled on his impressive coat. His French accent only added to his appeal, 'No relation to the author—only ironic coincidence.' He added, seeing the confusion and forming conspiracies in the Nathaniel's eyes.

'Release me from this paralysis!' He meant to say, but it came out as, 'Reesh me ferm ish arashis!'

But Leroux understood each word. 'That, I'm afraid; I cannot do, Mister Mandrake,' He sounded almost nonchalant, 'what, with you being such a _prodigious_ magician and all, I doubt it not that you would be able to escape from this little bind.' He put an indiscreet emphasis on the last word and chuckled at his own pun.

Nathaniel, within his now functioning mind, was contriving any sort of plot that may save him. Summoning any of his demons would be impossible—he could barely understand the words coming from his mouth, much less would any of his charges. He was at the complete mercy of this intruder and Nathaniel could not help but bemoan the misfortunate day he had been having.

'What do you want?' or something that hardly resembled the phrase fell from his mouth. The effort to form even an incoherent statement took a lot from Nathaniel's wavering energy. The day's events wore heavily on him.

'Your attention simply put.' He dragged a velvet armchair to where Nathaniel lay and promptly plopped down on it, 'You are much easier to speak to in this petrified state, seeing as how I have no fear of being interrupted by that squeaky whining puberty has bestowed upon you.' Leroux seemed to relish in these insulting tirades.

Nathaniel felt a stab of indignation. He had gone through puberty years ago.

But he was too exhausted to voice out his sentiments. Instead, he glared at Leroux with an intensity that would make his underlings pass out.

'Contrary to what I assume you must think, Mandrake, I am not the bad guy,' Leroux said, acknowledging the animosity that was radiating from Nathaniel, 'However, the terms I arrive with may continue to assist the case you have against me.' Suddenly, his demeanor changed from cold and cocky to introspective and somber, 'You have to listen very carefully to what I have to say. Your reaction, your response will be the catalyst to a future that may affect everyone in the world.'

Nathaniel stared at the man in pure bewilderment and confusion. The solemnity of Leroux's words increased Nathaniel's apprehension, but he couldn't help but be intrigued. Leroux could be a fruitful source of information if Nathaniel conducted himself properly. Fueled by his earlier suspicions that sprang from the man's name, Nathaniel tried desperately to formulate a fool proof plan that would give him the advantage. The grip fear had on his insides tightened indecently and Nathaniel chose his next words carefully. 'If you wish to speak, speak with me eye to eye, because I will not take any of this lying down.' Nathaniel hoped that Leroux appreciated his own pun.

It was a mouthful to say through frozen lips, and it became even more strangled at the end, but Nathaniel knew that his request had been granted as warmth flooded through his torso and upper limbs. He contorted his facial features with a strange relish, but frowned as he realized that his legs would not move.

'A compromise. You get to face me,' He gestured to a chair that suddenly appeared from behind Nathaniel, "And I make sure that you are able to inflict as little harm unto me as possible." He thought for a moment, his handsome features creasing, "That and you won't be able to catch me if I tried to escape."

Resisting the urge to hex that smirk of his face, Nathaniel knew that he needed to act accordingly if he wanted to gain the upper hand over the situation, "what makes you think I won't curse you, now that I've regained control over motor skills?'

Leroux, though he would not appreciate it, was very expressive. Nathaniel could easily determine the calculating thoughts hidden behind an expertly cocked eyebrow. He was expecting an equally, if not even more so, stinging reply, but he never received it.

Instead, he heard a guttural cry that came from the throat of the refined Frenchman. He fell to the floor with a sickening thud and his body began jerked in every direction. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled back into his head, much like how Nathaniel's had.

Nathaniel jumped up in shock. '_This is really too much for one day!_' He cried in his head as he inched away from Leroux. He stumbled backwards, as he fell over the chair and watched helplessly as the Frenchman seemed to succumb to the same pain he had just experienced. Nathaniel gritted his teeth together and realized that he had to do something, '_The mask! He knows something about it!_' He racked his mind frantically for any sort of solution, '_What the hell can I do?_'

Leroux's hand snapped out towards him, and his eyes, now sunken in deeper, bore into Nathaniel. Nathaniel cried out in shock at the extended appendage. Leroux was crawling closer and closer to him, and although his body was still rapidly jerking every which way, he seemed to have gained a bit of control.

'Help...' The words fell from Leroux's mouth like the cry he had uttered so painfully; his hand flexing and twitching erratically in front of his face.

Nathaniel swat it away, just to get it away from his face, but as soon as he had made contact, a sliver of energy ran through his body slowly, but as it moved, it gained speed and thrust itself through his arm and into Leroux's, with such velocity that burned from his shoulder to his fingertips. He recoiled and moved to soothe his stinging arm.

But he couldn't.

His entire left arm seemed to be shackled to Leroux's right, serving as a freeway for all this burning energy to pass between them. Nathaniel felt his grip loosening, but still he could not escape. Instead, he felt Leroux's grip tightening around his bony hand. His convulsions had lessened and with one last jolt of energy that threw Nathaniel across room, they stopped altogether.

Nathaniel barreled into an old armoire, smashing the glass painfully. Groaning in distress and weariness, Nathaniel ignored the growing bump in his head, shot up, and faced Leroux (who was tidying his coat and fixing his hair, which only added to Nathaniel's confused rage), 'What the f—' A large, porcelain vase that was set on top of the cabinet crashed towards the floor, 'just happened!'

Leroux, for once (and with full control of his facial expressions), looked scared. He warily acknowledged the livid magician that stalked towards him, as his eyes darted from side to side, 'Now, now, Mandrake!' He forced out a laugh, 'I can explain everything. Just calm down, or I'll be forced to—repeat my former actions!'

A dry laugh escaped Nathaniel's throat as he prepared to summon two or three of his foliots. Half crazed with exhaustion and pent-up rage, he thought of the most sadistic curse possible for Leroux, but he found that there were too many to choose from. '_No matter, I'll just have to be creative._'

'Mandrake, I can explain! What just happened was—'

'Mister Leroux, after all of the events which have transpired today, I am not a man to be trifled with by petty explanations and body binding spells!' The summoning incantation was repeating over and over in his head, like a mantra, 'I've had a ridiculously long day, and I do not appreciate your presence in my house, along with the mental probing and body spasms that accompanied you to my home!'

And just as he was about to finally utter the words to call his demons, Leroux made one final attempt.

He threw something at Nathaniel, who barely managed to catch it. It was a tattered, leather-bound book, and read, in golden, emblazoned script, _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra Garnier_. Underneath it, in the same lettering, was the name _Pauline Coeuret._ Shuffling it quickly in his hands, he flipped the pages in rapid succession, and the yellowed, frail pages revealed glimpses of crudely made drawings and unfinished compositions. '_What is this?_'

Startled back into sanity, Nathaniel's questioning eyes darted from the book to Leroux, his face now grave and troubling.

'I bring nothing with me, but that.' He gesticulated somberly to the book, 'It is all inside of you.'

Nathaniel flipped open the cover of the book. A face was sketched on the first page; half of it covered by a pristinely white mask. The mouth was set into a straight line, with a long and terrible scar that divided the bleeding lips. The ink that formed it refused to bleed into the page, retaining the expressionless countenance. Nathaniel found himself staring into a pair of sunken, shaded eyes that gazed back at him, boring into his soul.

'The Phantom, he is inside you.'

* * *

Well, that sucks doesn't it? I update, and leave it hanging right there. Everything above, merits explanation, and it shall come, believe me. But the expected time of its arrival is very, very hard to presume. Before you make any comments about how you don't understand anything, and how nothing makes sense, please keep in mind that this story is far from completion. Everything will be explained in due time, but for now, I'm just laying the very messy groundwork for what is soon to come. You are meant to be confused, you are meant to be intrigued. If you make any comments about how nothing has been explained, I'll be forced to think that you're a complete idiot (no offense intended, it's all just me, really), because, face the facts, nothing has been explained yet. Everything (or mostly everything) will be explained in future chapters. Presumably the next one, but I doubt it. 

Anyway, on another note, what do you think about Arséne? I'd really appreciate feedback on any of the aspects of my story. He's just one of the most interesting aspects. I'd describe him in detail, but I really can't stomach it when authors describe their characters using all of these lame analogies, similes, metaphors, and any other figure of speech. I feel like retching each time I read a "his eyes were clear blue pools of crystal that I found myself drowning in," or "her silky black hair cascaded down her curvy backside." Blegh. And I wouldn't draw him, seeing as how I lack the talent that would do him justice. Anyway, please don't forget to review, and comment on anything you'd like. I appreciate feedback, and the more you nitpick, the more likely I'd reply. Review!


	4. Kitty: Mind the Gap

I wouldn't say that I've been inspired as of late. I've just been driven, which is a good thing I suppose, but I wish I was more inspired. I can't believe I've been able to crank out two chapters in two days. That's like some sort of record for me, seriously. I've been doing most of my writing in the dark, in the wee hours of the morning, which can't be good for my health, but hey, it gets the job done! It's about two in the morning (which isn't very late for me, to be honest) and I'm just writing this author's note now. Haha. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I lost the plot, then found it again, then lost it once more, and now I think I've found it, but I can't be very sure. Anyway, I hope this chapter is to your liking and please don't forget to review!

Many a thanks to all the reviewers. You're all very beautiful people. Truly. Thanks a plenty to those who reviewed the third chapter: **Spellcaster Hikaru**, **Dairokkan**, **AgiVega**, and **Coruscate Corruption**. I really cannot stress on the extent of your beauty... Pulchritude. Whatever. I'm just babbling, so please forgive me.

_**The Phantom's Mask**_

_**Chapter Four**_

_Kitty: Mind the Gap_

Jude and Kurt had managed to accomplish an impressive heist on Boz Yeltzin's Shop of Magical Memorabilia, a shop that famously sold magical artifacts (only second to Sholto Pinn's). Kitty had been waiting outside the shop window, in the alley way, waiting for them to throw down the burlap bag filled with Elemental Spheres, Inferno Sticks and Rods, and explosive globes. But the main point of mission was to obtain the Scythe of the Boatman; an ancient relic, which, when the proper incantation was performed upon it, could bring an instant, agonizing death to anyone who was so much as even nicked by it.

After a half an hour of waiting and getting impatient, a high-pitched whistle came from above and as she looked up, she saw a hefty sack falling towards her. She caught it easily and immediately set it down. In less than a moment later, a long, narrow object, wrapped in Manila paper followed it. She glanced at it longingly before catching it silently. Two heads suddenly popped out from the window, flashing thumbs up. She grabbed the bag from the ground, and before escaping with their spoils, she gave the boys a curt salute before running as swiftly as her burden would allow.

They had agreed that Jude and Kurt would be the ones to search the place and fulfill their main objective, which was obtaining the Scythe, but if it all went on without a hitch, they would be given the freedom to search the place more thoroughly and ransack the shop. To secure their mission, they were required to secure the Scythe first before doing any other extensive investigating, which was where Kitty came in. They would pass on the relics to her so that even though they were caught, the Scythe would still be in the Resistance's possession. And even if "The Drop" would go successfully and the two were caught, they had the Seal of Telepros, which could transport them to any specified destination.

It was Kitty's job to make a clean escape, carrying the magic items and the Scythe. She had to go from Yeltzin's shop, which was near South Kensington, all the way to the Resistance Headquarters, which was quite a far distance. Luckily for her, she could take the Tube without looking too suspicious. On the tube, there were a number of scummy drunkards, football hooligans, and grubby hobos who'd certainly take anyone's attention of a young girl with a giant bag.

Slinging the burlap sack over her shoulder like any normal rucksack and tucking the wrapped up Scythe underneath her arm, she made her way to the Underground. After inserting her ticket and heading to her line, she waited for her train, acting completely calm and cool, because she certainly felt that way.

If there were any inquisitive, suspicious glanced, she had not seen them.

And it was likely that there weren't any, because most of the people who were waiting were completely engrossed in their own lives. There were a couple of teenaged boys (most likely inebriated) who were arguing over football ("It's focken shite that Chelsea's winnin' ev'rythin'!" "Liverpool won't ever get to the finals!" "Beckham's a tosser!"), a few older men who were laughing and yelling at nothing in particular and harassing any lady that passed them by, as they waved their empty beer bottles jovially through the air, a pack of nuns who seemed to be horrified at the behavior being exhibited, and a number of couples, of all ages, clearly enjoying and abusing the fact that public displays of affection weren't against the law.

Kitty shuddered as she looked at a more than middle-aged man and a more than middle-aged woman slobber over each other's faces. They had accidentally bumped into her, nearly knocking the Scythe from her arm. She gave them the most malignant scowl she could manage. They just apologized briefly, and as they saw the look she gave them, they just laughed pleasantly to themselves, before giving her giant smiles and sticking their faces together again.

Just as Kitty was about to unleash the Boatman's Scythe upon them, the train arrived, and she thanked whatever blessed entity was responsible for this. She hopped onto the train and sat in the furthest possible seat from the clearly insane couple.

Settling the burlap sack in the seat next to her (so that any unwanted, inebriated couples would have to scoot at least a seat away), and placing the Scythe gently against her body, she prepared herself for a long ride, as all of the people she had previously observed filled up the same compartment she was in.

'Arsenal hasn't got no chance against Manchester!'

'City?'

'No, you nobhead! Manchester United!'

'Oi Sister! What is that that yooz got under yer big dressie?'

'Mio Dio!' screamed the nun who was currently being leered at. Apparently she was Italian. Kitty watched with a disinclined interest as the other nuns formed sort of a barricade around the Italian nun, so as to fend off the obese drunkard that was likely to fall on top of them.

'I'm telling you! Those damn Brazilianses, why do they gotta be so bloody good at football? Me girlfriend is bleedin' in love with Ronaldinho, but I'm heaps better looking than 'at wanker!'

'When we get home, I'll cook you a nice dinner, Italian food!' A young, but incredibly hefty couple that sat on the seat next to the burlap sack where completely engrossed in their own love filled, culinary world. They cooed to each other, doing an excellent job of ignoring the standoff between the drunkards and the nuns, 'Pasta, Pizza, and Risotto! Heck, I'll even make you Paella, even though it isn't Italian.'

Kitty groaned as she heard the collective and unimpressive sound of useless conversations that was buzzing through the compartment, '_Only eight more stops, only eight more stops._' She cradled the Scythe possessively to her body and tried, but in vain, to drown out the senseless chatter by humming the opening theme of Mr. Bean.

'Fan of the Bean, aye?'

She looked up to see a kind faced, young man sitting across her. He was holding a sleek wooden cane on his right hand, but he seemed perfectly healthy and fit. She stole a quick glance from his face, but as she spoke she refused to meet his eyes, feigning sleepiness. From her swift appraisal of his appearance, she could see that he had high cheekbones and a large tuft of messy dark hair.

'Who on earth calls it "the Bean?"' She replied smoothly, hiding a smile. It wasn't too tart too scare him off and it wasn't playful enough to invite him in. She straightened her back against her seat. She was beyond relieved that she had found someone who seemed to be as sane as her (however sane that may be).

'Apparently I do,' he answered easily, letting out a polite, pleasant chuckle. He smiled at her, as if he were in the same position as Kitty: happy to have a diversion from all of the insanity ensuing in the compartment. 'My name is Cassian.' He extended his right hand out to her, switching the cane to his left.

Kitty shook it firmly, while smiling as well, 'Annie.'

He stared at her queerly and Kitty couldn't help but feel embarrassed. She had gotten very good at maintaining her poker face (much to the chagrin of her opponents), but she was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid the blush that was rising to her cheeks. She didn't like people staring at her much and he was doing it without bothering to his wide eyes and inquisitive countenance. He was staring at her, unabashedly and straightforwardly. 'What is it?' it came out harsher than she intended, but she was already feeling quite unnerved.

'You don't look like an Annie,' he responded simply.

She raised an eyebrow at him, 'What makes you say that?'

'Annies belong in chick flicks or romance novels. They're simple, plain schoolgirls who have big dreams and even bigger success. They're incredibly one dimensional and simple. You, on the other hand, have your arms wrapped around a peculiarly shaped parcel, and I'm quite certain that that peculiarly shaped sack over there belongs to you, as well, and not that... large couple next to it.'

'For all you know it could be the cow they'll be feasting on tonight,' Kitty knew that she was being particularly nasty, but she was unnerved by his assessment of people named Annie. She had a good friend in prep once, who had that name. She was a very interesting and complex girl from what Kitty could remember. She ended up joining the Peace Corps, which was more than Kitty and possibly this strange man had ever done. She heard a strange humming sound, and wondered where it came from. The parcel in her hands seemed to be trembling a bit, but she clasped her hands even tighter around it and both the shaking and the humming stopped.

'But it isn't, is it?' he continued, looking at her even more intently, 'The sack belongs to you, but the name Annie does not.' He smiled a knowing smile, and Kitty found that she did not enjoy it. It was still pleasant, but very unsettling.

'Kitty.'

'Yes, that does you suit you a lot more,' His smile became more pleasant and warmth replaced the previous intensity. Kitty wondered for a moment if he really was as sane as she thought he was, 'Kitty. Kit-ty. Short for Katherine, I presume? Or Katrina?'

'Kathleen, actually.'

'Beautiful name.'

The grin on his face was infectious, and Kitty couldn't help but smile back, even though she knew a reddish tint now graced her face, 'Yours too... I guess.' she muttered ungraciously, but he didn't seem to notice, as he smiled even brighter, giving a delightful chuckle.

'Thank you, Kitty.' The two paused for a moment, just looking at each other. It seemed an odd position, but the two paid little attention to it, lest they be dragged back into the reality of screeching nuns, football hooligans, and harassing drunkards. Cassian was the first to break the silence they shared.

'I believe this is your stop.'

Kitty snapped her head around and realized that he was right. Jumping out of her seat and grabbing her belongings, only as she was about to exit the compartment did this thought cross into her mind: '_How did he know that?_'

She was about to voice out her confusion, but the doors suddenly closed and she jumped out side onto the platform, clutching the sack and the Scythe possessively. Staring back at the departing train, she saw Cassian, the grin on his face still bright as day. As he waved goodbye, all Kitty could do was wave back.

* * *

Trudging along the crowded sidewalk, she glared at the sun, as it gleamed indifferently from right above. It was well past noon and she was still quite a distance from the Headquarters. Stopping for a moment, against a convenient lamppost, she put down her increasingly heavy burdens and rested. Her shoulder was starting to ache quite a bit and her palms were uncommonly clammy. 

She had been receiving a few odd looks here and there, but a group of punks had safely stolen the unwanted attention away from her. She was quite good at moving through crowds unnoticed, even though Kurtis McCaroll was certainly better than her. Most people didn't bother to look her way, and it didn't bother Kitty none. Certainly, if she made a complete fool of herself in public (which she had done on occasion in order to assist her comrades), heads would turn, but people simply weren't drawn to her naturally like they were drawn to Loretta, because of how pretty she was, or how their attention was caught by Lady, because of her large spectacles, or by Sally, because of her tendency to break out whining in public.

Unwanted attention was exactly what it sounded like, anyway. Unwanted.

Unwilling to move from her comfortable, yet awkward looking position against the lamppost, Kitty let her thoughts turn to the strange man she had met on the Tube. Compared to everyone else in the compartment, he had seemed like a safe bet, but after a few minutes of conversing with him, she was starting to doubt her initial assumptions.

Perhaps the football hooligans would have been a better choice.

'_But he was quite... comely,_' A voice in her head piped up, seeming to lack a better word to describe him. Kitty paused for a moment, wondering who that disembodied voice was, but then grudgingly accepted that it was her own. She reprimanded herself stubbornly, '_I'm on a mission! The leader of the Resistance shouldn't be thinking about... boys. 'Specially not that bloke._'

Deciding that she had enough of thinking, she hoisted the burlap bag over her other shoulder and tightened her grip on the Scythe, '_McCaroll and Marvin are probably at Headquarters already,_' she thought irritably as she set out on a quite sprint. They did have a nifty magical relic to help them out, whilst she did not. '_Unless they got their sorry arses busted._' Well aware that their discovery could be serious trouble for the Resistance, Kitty played with the thought in her head, ignoring what it meant to the bigger picture, but just happy to see the two suffer.

She still had a long distance to cover and her back was beginning to ache. She had every right to be thinking sadistic thoughts.

Minutes had passed, and the sun, high above in its noontime glory, decided for once to shine down angrily upon the streets of London, or more accurately, Kitty Jones' backside. Her back was burning by now, and her hands became clammy.

Before she could take yet another break, an increasingly loud 'yipping' sound made its way to her ears. Looking around, she saw a tiny Yorkshire terrier jumping towards her, dragging a presumably blind man with it.

The Yorkie seemed to be particularly incensed and was leaping at Kitty with much gusto. Its barking became louder and louder and its small maw gnashed angrily at Kitty's parcel.

'Shoo! Shoo, doggie!' she tried in vain, swatting it away with the wrapped up Scythe. But it only riled up the Yorkie even more, its teeth clicked towards Kitty and its barking became more frantic. Its tongue hang limply at the side of its mouth as it panted and growled at the same time. The Scythe seemed to heat up in her hands and from the Manila paper; she could see a faint, silver glow emanating from it.

'Miss, I don't suppose you've got a piece of meat on you?' the old man asked serenely, though Kitty could see him struggling to hold onto the terrier's leash, 'Alfred's got quite a good appetite too match his good nose.'

'No, I don't,' protested Kitty angrily as she raised the parcel as far away from the dog as possible, ignoring the burning sensation in her back and in her hand, the Scythe was burning and glowing fiercely. The Yorkie wouldn't stop. 'Please sir, restrain your dog!' She tried to step back, only to tread upon an older woman's shoes. The woman cursed at her, but Kitty was more concerned about the dog, which was now clawing at her knees, 'Stop!'

What happened was a complete blur for Kitty. She had ripped her legs from the Yorkie's clutches and made a mad dash away from the demonic little creature. Her legs moved furiously, beautifully, as if each stride was a line of an epic poem. Kitty had always been defined by her powerful movements (she had a very large cerebellum), but the poetry was soon lost as her legs became more frantic and her pacing became rough and irregular.

But Kitty couldn't stop, even though her back was ablaze with pain and her sweaty palms were losing their grip on her baggage. Her legs continued cutting through the air and careening through the people in the streets.

The yipping of the Yorkie was long gone and the Scythe had stopped glowing, but her anxiety had not dispersed. All the information the Resistance had on the Scythe was that it was a very potent weapon when the proper incantation was used, but it alarmed Kitty when the Boatman's Scythe suddenly activated on its own. Its glowing and burning temperature had to mean something, and Kitty couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as she help the mysterious relic in her hands.

But then the law of Inertia was exercised and Kitty was stopped by an opposing force.

And with a loud cry of distress, she had crashed into an unwitting man, bringing him down with her to the cold, hard pavement. The Scythe skittered a few yards away from her. After muttering a nearly inaudible 'Sorry,' Kitty, with catlike agility, sprang up again. She hoisted the bag more securely over her shoulder and set out on another hard sprint after snatching back the brown parcel.

After she had covered a safe distance from the stranger, she chanced a glance at him, as she felt a bit guilty about knocking him over. Her hair flicked back and she got a good look at the poor man she had literally bowled over.

The sight would have made her stop cold in her tracks, but all the sense in her mind forced her body to ignore the impulse and keep running.

'_No way_,' she thought, '_Mandrake?_' Her feet moved even faster then before, '_There's no mistaking that suit._'

To Kitty's horror, she heard another pair of footsteps, pattering rapidly against the pavement, getting closer and closer. Peeking through her hair, she saw that a very frantic John Mandrake was on her tail. He ran like a gawky adolescent, but he was certainly gaining on her.

With a silent cry of pain she couldn't do anything but keep her pace. She felt as though her knees might give way or that her burlap sack might burst, but she clutched onto the Boatman's Scythe with all her might.

'Excuse me!' She heard him yell. An old sense of dread ignited within the pit of her stomach.

He was inches away from her, but the searing sensation that was traveling through all of her joints stopped her from going any faster, all she could do was run and pray that the gangly magician snagged onto some heaven-sent root or pedestrian.

Her prayers were soon answered by a loud, resounding ripping sound. The other set of feet had ceased their chase and given up. Kitty, in her mind's eye, could just see what happened to Mandrake and the thought refreshed her, gave her a boost.

She risked another glance at him, and she could barely contain her mirth as she saw him sprawled against the dusty cement, his hands over his rear. The whole scene even put a spring into her step.

'Damned suit!'

With those final words, Kitty had had it. She burst into laughter, which may not have been the smartest thing to do while running. But there she was, her body convulsing with amusement as her legs worked as furiously as a drill hammer.

She hadn't laughed like that in a long time, and the happiness it brought set her free. The pain in her back was replaced bye a warm, flitting feeling. Her arms moved freely, no longer constrained by the heavy burdens. Her movements became fluid and gay. The poetry had returned.

And she arrived at Headquarters.

* * *

'Kitty! At last!' cried a clearly shaken Sally, a frantic girl with short black hair. She had lunged at Kitty the moment she was nestled in the security of the building. Sally wrung her arms around Kitty's neck, 'It took you so long to come back! We thought that the coppers had gotten to you!' 

Kitty staggered under Sally's added weight and collapsed on the carpeted floor of the room. All the weariness she had felt before had suddenly come back. The giddiness was like some sort of drug that had lost its effect as soon as she had gotten back, 'I ran into someone,' she replied vaguely, 'now, ge'roff me!'

She pushed Sally off her and stood up, straightening herself out. All other twelve members of the Resistance were present, and they had all been waiting for her. She handed the sack to Asher and the Scythe to Winston.

'You traveled on foot here all the way from South Kensington!' exclaimed a usually tepid Jude, 'You should be dead tired.'

'Thank you for stating the obvious Marvin,' snapped Kitty, the pain in her back was returning at full force, 'My joints are killing me, just so you know!'

'What Jude means is that it was just strange to see you cavorting and prancing back to H.Q.,' answered Peter, ever the peacemaker, 'We saw you blocks away, just tirelessly running. You even seemed to be laughing about something.'

'I did take the Tube, most of the way,' answered Kitty evasively, but to no avail, the curiosity of the members of the Resistance was peaked and they were all looming around her, except for Asher and Winston who were both sorting the spoils of their heist. Kitty moved to join the two, but the ten other people in the room formed a barricade around her, at least until they managed to extort the truth.

'Waiiit!' Loretta grinned, flashing her pearly whites at Kitty as she held her arms up to keep her from escaping, 'You said that you "ran into someone."' She mimed out the quotation marks, 'Care to explain to us, pretty Kitty? Come on, out with it!'

'I—

'Oh, Kitty met a boy!' squealed Eleanor, along with the four other girls in the room. Trust the female members of an elite, underground operation that was the main threat against the government to start getting excited over a bit of gossip.

'I never—

'I can't believe that you'd get so hung over a guy!' shrieked Eleanor excitedly while Loretta nodded earnestly and tugged exasperatingly at Kitty's sleeve with a look that was just begging for details.

'All this girly gossip,' grumbled Billy, 'It really makes me wonder what I signed up for here.'

Peter covered his ears and yelped, 'Gah! Girly gossip is right! I'm off to help Ash and Win.'

'What did he look like? What was his name? Was he tall? Handsome? Disgustingly corpulent?' asked an unusually eager Lady asked Kitty excitedly.

'Corpulent?' blinked Richard.

'It means fat.'

'Why would Kitty like a fat bloke?'

'You never know.'

'Guys!' screamed Kitty. Their voices all blended into one unpleasant buzzing that Kitty could barely hear. She was busy trying to suppress the urge to either lunge at all of them or just fall asleep right there on the floor. She was beginning to sway in her place and her eyelids were starting to droop. The babble instantly stopped, and everyone turned their full attention on her once more. Shrugging flippantly, she decided that she might as well tell them the truth, if it meant that she'd get to rest earlier, 'Yes, I did run into a guy, but nothing happened.'

'Was he a looker?'

'What was his name?'

'How old was he, Kitty?'

'How did you meet him? Where? When? Kitty!'

'Kitty!'

'Something must have happened that would have made you skip all the way home!'

'Kitty Jones!'

She yawned as the onslaught of questions and accusations hit her. She was blinking back the tears that came from yawning and tried hard on concentrating on what all her friends were saying, but he mind was muddled and befuddled by sleep and the lingering presence of Cassian.

'Kitty, say anything!' screeched Loretta, who shook Kitty wide awake. She was probably the biggest gossip of them all.

'He had a cane.' murmured Kitty peacefully as she let sleep overtake her once more. Her head rolled onto Loretta's shoulder and her knees buckled under her weight. Loretta caught her before she hit the ground.

'A cane? Does that mean he's some weird geriatric man?' asked Lady, a bit of concerned fear in her voice.

'We'll pester her once she's awake. As of this moment, she's practically dead to the world.' Loretta said as she tried to hold onto Kitty, who was grinding her teeth slightly. Jude chivalrously retrieved Kitty from Loretta's arms.

'She's clearly a lot more tired that we thought,' he remarked starkly, 'I'll bring her to bed. You lot, take stock of the things we pulled from Yeti's. Win, I think you should start working on cracking the Scythe now. It'll be a nice way to wake up Kitty if you manage to activate it.' There was a pregnant pause in the room as soon as Jude's last statement (and the double entendre that accompanied it) had registered in their minds.

He winced, 'That came out wrong.'

Winston shook his head, 'Just... go on.'

A burst of laughter followed as soon as he had left the room.

* * *

Kitty, once she woke up, felt a wave of relief that she was back home at Headquarters. She was relieved that she didn't have to explain anything to them about what happened on the way and that she ran into John Mandrake. Although she hadn't told them about her previous relations to Mandrake, she still didn't feel comfortable about bringing him up. The subject was a touchy one for her, but none of the other members of the Resistance knew why. 

She just laid there in bed, protected by a flimsy sheet of fabric. The room had no windows, so she couldn't tell whether it was dark outside, but she felt as though she had been asleep for a long time. The day's events took their toll on her and Kitty was over stimulated by all that she had experienced throughout the day.

That stranger in the Tube seemed to have started the whole chain of strange events. The Scythe had been acting strangely once she had met him. And it had also been reacting to something when she had encountered the dog and the blind man. She cursed the fact that they had such limited research about the Scythe. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would go to the library and try to find out more about the artifact which may have been more dangerous than they initially thought.

She signed resignedly into her pillow and buried her face in it. Her limbs were still sore, but she was starting to feel better as she just lay on the thin mattress complacently. She heard a bit of a ruckus going on outside her room, but she just lay there indifferently, '_I hope they don't come to get me just yet_,' she thought absentmindedly as she enjoyed the softness of her pillow.

She didn't want to be grilled about what happened just yet. It was bad enough a while ago, but now that she was rested, their questions would dig in deeper and her little tussle with Mandrake might be uncovered. She was thankful for the time she had now, so that she could fix the story she'd be telling them, but she was reluctant to lie to them about too much. They deserved to know the truth, but she vowed that whatever happened between her and Mandrake would just stay with her.

But, as if by some contrary spirit's sick sense of fun would have it, a tentative knock sounded on the door and she heard someone enter the room.

'Kitty?' it was Peter. Sweet, little Peter, 'Oh great, you're awake!' he was smiling as he walked towards her bed. The same adorable smile that the other girls in the Resistance (Kitty, shockingly enough, included) cooed over didn't seem as cute when Kitty didn't want to be disturbed, but she could never get mad at Peter, especially about something he hadn't done.

Kitty grumbled, burrowing her face deeper into the pillow.

'Come on, the others are waiting.' They had probably sent Peter because they knew he was the only one Kitty was least likely to throttle. She had an infamous temper when it came to waking her up.

'Don't care.' Was her blunt, direct response.

'Please, Kitty? It's supper time and you know how Winston likes it when we all eat together.' This was true. Winston had a thing about everyone eating their meals at the same time. He said that it promoted "a family like atmosphere."

'Not that hungry,' but to be honest, she was feeling a bit famished.

'Jude's the one who cooked tonight.' Jude was probably the best cook among them, although that wasn't really saying much. He was a master in their kitchen and he managed to whip up the most delectable meals with their meager supplies.

'His quiche made me sick.' But it was only because she ate too much of it.

'Win said the incantation for the Boatman's Scythe and we'll be able to use it tomorrow. Don't you want to see it?' The boy seemed desperate to get her out off bed. Perhaps one of the older guys bullied him into it. Kitty would have to talk to them later.

'I'll see it tomorrow.' Truth be told, Kitty had become wary of the Scythe after all that had happened.

She heard Peter make a sharp intake of breath and she could tell that he was getting exasperated. She felt bad for the kid, but she snuggled deeper into her bed. She could tell that he was clearly keyed up about something. When he abruptly released his breath, he shouted in an impatient voice.

'The man with the cane is outside!'

'WHAT?'

Kitty ripped away his thin blanket and leapt out of bed. In one swift movement, she pounced on the boy and gripped his shoulders tightly, 'What are you talking about, you little...' she let herself trail off, not wanting to hurt the little boy's feelings.

'A man with a cane arrived and we assumed it was the chap you were talking about, since he knew your name and all.' Confessed a very shaken Peter, he blinked rapidly as he stared at the very much insane looking girl in front of him, 'But he wouldn't tell us who he was. And he said that he'd only talk if he saw you!'

Kitty detached herself from him and burst through the door and into the main room. She immediately spotted him, 'You!' she exclaimed, pointing a scandalized finger at the brown-haired, kind faced man who was sitting on an armchair, 'What are you doing here?'

'Ah, Kitty!' Cassian replied calmly, using his cane to hoist himself up, 'It's really quite a pleasure to see you again.'

'What are you doing here?' She asked him again, hands placed firmly on her hips, 'and how on bloody earth did you get in?' She glared accusingly at Noel, who was meant to be guarding the door. He held an ice pack over his forehead and returned Kitty's glare with equal vehemence. The other Resistance members were littered around the room, quiet as they observed the scene.

'To answer your second question,' replied Cassian, surprisingly calm, 'He let me in.' He pointed his cane in Noel's direction. The young boy immediately leapt (not literally) to his defense.

'He knew all the passwords and stuff!' protested Noel, his free hand waving frantically in the air, 'Then when I opened the door, he knocked me out with his cane.'

'Couldn't you see through the eyehole that he was a stranger, you idiot?' fumed Kitty, wondering for a brief moment why she was so mad, 'and didn't the fact that we're all here even register in your mind?'

'All I saw were his incredibly nondescript eyes. It could have been any of you!' griped Noel, who was getting a bit anxious of Kitty who looked as if she may try to rip out his jugular. He gulped noticeably.

'Noel knows what 'nondescript' means?' remarked Jude softly to Sally, who giggled.

'Shut up, Marvin!'

'Oh yeah—

'Cassian, why are you here?' Kitty asked once more. She hated to repeat herself, but the stubborn man's pleasant smile held more secrets and Kitty wanted to find out what they were. It didn't help that he was infuriatingly good-natured.

'Ooh! That's his name!' a dreamy Loretta said, swooning, 'Cassian... Cassian.' She tested it on her tongue and found that she liked it.

'How on earth did he find out about the codes and the passwords?' An incredulous Winston asked to know one in particular. He did that quite often, 'Unless Kitty told him. Did you Kitty?'

'Of course not!' replied the indignant Kitty. The noise in the room was growing as everybody started to speak at the same time. Everyone was talking (or yelling in some cases) to someone else, except for Cassian, who remained demurely quiet throughout the clamor.

It was a surprise that the Night Police hadn't heard them yet.

A loud crack resounded through the room, and suddenly, the noise stopped. Cassian, in the center, had thrust down his came and from the impact came a sound that was thunderous. Everyone stopped and turned to stare at him.

'To answer your first question, Miss Jones,' He began, as calm as ever, 'I shall need to speak with you in private.'

* * *

_Suddenly... I am feeling closer to God. It's time to—_

/Chokes self before inevitable song and dance number starts/

Ahem. Sorry for that. I wouldn't want to scar your eyes, now would I? You need them to read my fic! Haha. Just kidding. I'd more likely shatter eardrums that blind eyes, so that's a good thing. Hee. I feel weird. Maybe it's because it's nearly half past two in the morning. Oh wait, now, it's half past two. There was a long interval between the time it took to write the sentence before this one, and the sentence before the sentence before this one. Confusing? Yeah, probably. Anyway, I hope the chapter was interesting. Seeing any obvious parallels? They just glare at me. Haha. Anyway, please review!


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